


Don’t Call Me Cinderella

by yallaintright



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drinking Games, F/M, M/M, Sexual Tension, alternate universe - princess diaries au, courfeyrac is two four six oh done with enjolras and grantaire's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yallaintright/pseuds/yallaintright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For his eighteenth birthday, all Grantaire wants is a pony. Well, for his eighteenth birthday all Grantaire really wants is some quality makeout time with Enjolras, hopefully with very little clothing involved, but the chances of that happening are slim to none, so he has resignedly decided to settle for a pony.  Or possibly a unicorn. He isn’t that picky about equines. </p><p>Instead, he gets a small European country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one with the drinking game

**Author's Note:**

> My once and future Princess Diaries AU. Endless thanks to the lovely [Mariana](http://grantairer.tumblr.com/) for betaing this.

The problem with Enjolras and Grantaire is that they’ve been doing this dance since before they knew what the dance even was.

In an ideal world, it would go like this: six year-old Grantaire spills hot chocolate on six year-old Enjolras’s shirt. Grantaire apologizes. Enjolras ignores him. Grantaire apologizes more. Enjolras ignores him. Grantaire shares his Oreos with Enjolras. Enjolras forgives him. Enjolras and Grantaire become friends. Enjolras and Grantaire grow up. Sometime after becoming annoying hormone-riddled teenagers Enjolras and Grantaire realize they want to have hot back-breaking sweaty sex with each other. Enjolras and Grantaire have hot back-breaking sweaty sex with each other. The end.

However, because this is not an ideal world and the universe apparently hates Courfeyrac (the universe is just jealous it does not have Courfeyrac’s manly shoulders), it goes like this: six year-old Grantaire spills hot chocolate on six year-old Enjolras shirt. Grantaire apologizes. Enjolras ignores him. Grantaire apologizes more. Enjolras ignores him. Grantaire shares his Oreos with Enjolras. Enjolras forgives him. Grantaire promptly manages to spill water all over Enjolras’s hair. Grantaire apologizes. Enjolras ignores him. Enjolras and Grantaire grow up. Enjolras and Grantaire argue about every single thing on the face of the planet. Enjolras and Grantaire become annoying emotionally stunted hormone-riddled teenagers who apparently haven’t yet managed to notice that they want to have hot back-breaking sweaty sex with each other. Enjolras and Grantaire don’t have hot back-breaking sweaty sex with each other. Courfeyrac has to put up with the endless amounts of eye fucking that happen every single time one of them thinks the other isn’t looking. Courfeyrac eventually gives in and murders them both in their sleep.

Okay, so maybe the last two haven’t happened yet. Courfeyrac reckons it’s only a matter of time anyway.

Specially because heavens forbid he brings it up to _either_ of them. Grantaire will blush and attempt to hide under his beanie and throw the occasional pillow in Courfeyrac’s general direction (it’s okay, he mostly has terrible aim). Enjolras, however, will just go very still and get that terrifying look in his eyes that no one not even old enough to legally buy alcohol should be able to produce and, quite frankly, makes Courfeyrac want to look into the witness protection program.

The work of a martyr, Courfeyrac thinks sadly, is never fully appreciated.

And, honestly - Courfeyrac is _tired_. Courfeyrac is so, _so_ tired and if he has to put up with Enjolras and Grantaire Enjolrasing and Grantairing all over the place in a remotely sober state he’s going to have to punch someone. Although, of course, it won’t be either of them, because Enjolras doesn’t look like the kind of person who enjoys getting punched, and he’s quite sure that the blonde would like it even less if he were to punch Grantaire.

So, he does the next best thing - he makes a drinking game out of it. First, he bugs Éponine into helping him, partly because she’s Grantaire’s best friend and therefore must be suffering as much as Courfeyrac, if not more, and partly because she’s a genius with computers.

Her answer, however, is a clear and resounding no. It’s okay, though, Courfeyrac had planned for Éponine being difficult.

“Éponine - “ he starts, but she cuts him off before he can get start explaining why it’s important to do good things for the greater good and how the pain of one isn’t more important than the happiness of many. Or something along those lines, he didn’t actually plan the speech ahead.  

“Oh, _hell_ no. You can turn the puppy eyes right off. Enjolras will kill you,” Éponine says, waving a threatening finger at him.

“No, he won’t,” Courfeyrac replies, with more confidence than he feels.

“Yes, he will. Slowly. And worse, he will make you listen to the indie bullshit music he’s always listening to while he does it. You hate his indie bullshit music.”

“Do you honestly care _how_ he does it?”

“No, but Enjolras isn’t an idiot. He knows it’s a wonder you can find the Start button on your computer at all.” And Courfeyrac has to admit she has a point. “He’ll know you had help. And we both know there’s no way you’ll hold under torture. Two minutes into “The Cave” and you’ll be telling him all your dirty secrets. And worse, you’ll be telling him all of mine. Like how I was the one to help you. He’ll come after me next. I don’t know about you, but I actually enjoy having all my limbs firmly attached, Courfeyrac.”

Luckily, Courfeyrac had planned for her sense of self-preservation of well so he knows he’ll have to bring in the big guns. “I’ll do your history homework for a week.”

Éponine snorts. “You’ll do _all_ my homework until the end of the school year.”

“I’ll do all your homework for a week.” Courfeyrac counters.

“Courfeyrac,” she says slowly, as if talking to a child, “you want me to create an iPhone app for the basic purpose of stalking Enjolras and Grantaire.”

“It’s not stalking!” Courfeyrac says indignantly, because it _isn’t_. “It’s just like a checklist. Whenever they do something sexual tension-y we’ll check in and then we can all get together and get drunk later. You approve of getting people drunk. Hell, Grantaire loves getting people drunk. Grantaire would think this was a good idea if it allowed him to get drunk as well.”

“Yes, I’m sure Enjolras will let you live if you put it just like that.” She rolls her eyes. “All my homework. End of the year. Or you do this on your own. Your call.”

Courfeyrac can’t help but be impressed, even though he still thinks she is only doing this because if push comes to shove Enjolras will only kill him and allow her to live - Grantaire would miss her, and Enjolras wouldn’t want to upset him. “You drive a hard bargain, Thénardier. Deal,” he says, putting out a hand for her to shake.

She shakes his hand and then immediately settles down to work, asking him, “Do you have a list already?”

Courfeyrac snorts. “Of course I have a list. Who do you take me _for_?”

He does have a list. He is very proud of the list. The list goes like this:

\----------

_Enjolras and Grantaire argue about something mind bogglingly stupid - Drink one sip_

_Enjolras starts pacing - Drink one sip_

_Enjolras and Grantaire glare at each other - Drink one sip_

_Grantaire blushes - Drink one sip_

_Enjolras blushes - Finish your glass_

(“I didn’t even _know_ Enjolras was actually physically capable of blushing.”

“Grantaire’s last birthday. He was drunk and decided he wanted to pet Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras actually purred. It would’ve been glorious, if it hadn’t made me want to punch myself in the face.”) _  
_

_While claiming to watch TV, one of them is actually asleep on top of the other on the couch - Drink one sip_

_The one being used as a pillow can’t bring himself to wake up the other one - Drink one shot_

_Enjolras gets jealous of anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to Grantaire - Drink one shot_

_Grantaire drops whatever he is holding because Enjolras smiled at something - Drink one shot_

(“Wait, what is this even supposed to be called?”

“So You Think You Can Sexual Tension.”

“That makes no grammatical sense.”

“I am not paying you for your grammatical skills, Thénardier.”

“You’re not paying me at all, Courfeyrac. Remind me again of why I am doing this.”

“Homework. The kindness of your heart? Because you believe in karma? Because this will inevitably lead to drunken revelry and you enjoy encouraging the corruption of youth?”

“That does make sense.”)

_Enjolras smiles his “Grantaire is an annoyingly adorable contrarian and if I could I would be nakedly cuddling him” smile_

_Grantaire smiles his “Enjolras is an annoyingly outspoken hot greek god and I want to nakedly cuddle him” smile_

(“Who  the hell even says nakedly cuddling?”

“Shh, just stand there and code.”)

_Grantaire trips over his feet because Enjolras smiled at something - Drink one sip_

_Enjolras catches Grantaire before he falls down - Drink one shot_

_Enjolras forgets what he was saying because Grantaire smiled - Drink one shot_

_Enjolras and Grantaire fuck each other’s brains out - You have alcohol poisoning and are clearly suffering from hallucinations. Please go to the nearest hospital._

\----------

It takes her ten minutes to finish and while Courfeyrac is impressed at the speed, he is not impressed at the design. “Thénardier, this is the ugliest fucking app I have ever seen.”

“Do you want this app or do you want an app that looks good _and_ for me to punch you on the face?” She replies sweetly, with her hands on her hips.

“You make an excellent point.” And then, because unlike some people, Courfeyrac isn’t an emotionally stunted asshole and Éponine is, objectively speaking, very hot, while not putting up with any of his bullshit, he simply turns to her with a winning smile and says, “So, do you want to go on a date or something?” and because Éponine also isn’t an emotionally stunted asshole, she looks him up and down in a truly unimpressed sort of way and says, “There’s no The Walking Dead on this week, I can do Sunday.” And that had been that.

And sure, Courfeyrac knows that she has a crush on Marius, but he does enjoy a challenge and Éponine is fun and tough and hot and smart and he likes that in a woman, so there’s no reason why he _shouldn’t_ ask her out. And when one date turns into two turns into three turns into so many he loses count, Courfeyrac can’t help but be sure that asking her out was a good decision, even if she still is still making him do her homework.

On the plus side, he doesn’t have to do quite so much begging to get her to update the list, which has now grown to be around five pages long, and were they to strictly check everything on it, everyone would wake up on the hospital with alcohol poisoning within an hour of putting up with Enjolras and Grantaire.

Still, they have a system for it now. Whenever Grantaire calls because he needs help with his maths homework or Enjolras wants someone to go see the most recent independent movie with him, they all make their excuses so that Enjolras and Grantaire have to spend time together.

Courfeyrac will say that he can’t because he’s having sex with Éponine. Combeferre will say that he’s volunteering at the puppy shelter (and he probably _will_ be volunteering at the puppy shelter rather than drinking with them but, whatever, Courfeyrac still admires his dedication to the cause). Jehan will say that he can’t because there’s a poetry reading downton and invite them both to come along. Bahorel will have kickboxing practice. Feuilly will say that he can’t because History Channel is showing a documentary on Polish history. Marius will say that his cats are getting lonely (and Courfeyrac will roll his eyes, because there’s only so much shrieking over Napoleon and Bonaparte that he can take and who the fuck even names their cats that?). Bossuet will say that he’s lost his keys again. Joly will say that he’s coming down with a cold. And Éponine, charming ray of light that she is, will say that a) she’s having sex with Courfeyrac and b) even if she wasn’t having sex with Courfeyrac, she still wouldn’t _want_ to.

And in reality, they will get together at Courfeyrac basement and drink, bet and plot.

Which is why he isn’t that surprised when, on Grantaire’s eighteenth birthday, a male stripper jumps out of his cake. It’s what Courfeyrac _had_ wanted to give him, but Grantaire had made him pinky swear he wouldn’t and even Courfeyrac wouldn’t break that kind of promise. Still, when the cake arrives, it is nothing if not ‘stripper-sized’.

Courfeyrac doesn’t really question it and instead just makes sure the cake isn’t under any direct sunlight so whoever is inside it won’t get too sweaty. The way he sees it, the universe owes him and this is it’s way of paying him back.

And when the guy inside it jumps out, Courfeyrac thinks he’d prefer it if he was younger, blonder and blue-eyed, but he is hot and attractive in a dark-haired, dark-eyed, broad-shouldered, old enough to be be his dad sort of way but - again - he doesn’t really question it, just thinks it is karma paying him back for all his hard work.

He doesn’t punch the air when Enjolras breaks the glass he was holding because he doesn’t actually have a death wish. But it’s close.

Instead, as the man who jumped out of the cake drags a very reluctant Grantaire into the nearest bathroom (Courfeyrac thinks it would make more sense for the lap dance to be public but he’s not about to question the universe as it has finally decided to work with him), he turns to his friends and asks, “So, which one of you gorgeous gentlemen did it?”

He doesn’t even find it particularly strange when he is met with eight confused expressions (Éponine’s, Feuilly’s, Joly’s, Jehan’s, Combeferre’s, Bahorel’s, Bossuet’s and Marius’) and one murderous one (Enjolras’).

He only starts to realize that something doesn’t quite add up when the man walks out of the bathroom barely five minutes after walking in, with all his clothes still on, and a very confused-looking Grantaire following closely behind him. A very confused-looking Grantaire who doesn’t look at _all_ like someone who just got a lap dance. A very confused-looking Grantaire who turns to his friends, runs a hand through an already extremely untidy mess of black curls and, with an apologetic look in his eyes, says he has to go deal with “family issues”, before being dragged out of the door by the man.

Courfeyrac isn’t one hundred percent sure, but he thinks Grantaire may just have been kidnapped by a stripper.


	2. The one with the limo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something you must know, about your father,” she says, looking at him with pity in her eyes.
> 
> “Okay?” Grantaire says, frowning.
> 
> “Your father... Your father was the King of Genovia.” 
> 
> Grantaire can’t stop himself from snorting. “You know, that is a terrible stage name. I mean, it’s not as bad as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, of course, but then again very few things are. I suppose he probably couldn’t have pulled off calling himself Cher or Madonna, but that still doesn’t mean - “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely [Mariana](http://grantairer.tumblr.com) with an additional look by [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com), who is a gift.

For his eighteenth birthday, all Grantaire wanted was a pony. Well, actually, all Grantaire really wanted was some quality makeout time with Enjolras, hopefully with very little clothing involved, but God knew that was never going to happen, so he had resignedly decided to settle for a pony.  Or possibly a unicorn. He wasn’t that picky about equines.

What he got was an admittedly very attractive middle-aged man jumping out of his birthday cake, when he deliberately had made Courfeyrac pinky swear that no strippers would be involved with his party.

The man, dressed in black from head to toe, had quickly gotten to his feet, wiped stray bits of frosting from his hair, glared at everyone in the room - including Courfeyrac, who looked like Grantaire had indeed gotten a unicorn for his birthday, and Enjolras, who somehow had managed to break the glass he was holding using nothing but his bare hands - until he finally settled his eyes on Grantaire, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and half-carried, half-dragged him into the nearest bathroom, locking the door firmly behind him and gravely declaring that they must speak at once.

After that, things get weird.

“You’re a wizard, Harry,” the man says calmly, leaning against the bathroom door and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m really not,” Grantaire replies, sitting on the bathtub edge. Sure, he may have spent his eleventh birthday crying in bed because no letter had come from Hogwarts, but nowadays he’s quite sure that if he _was_ a wizard he’d already have woken up with Enjolras in his bed with neither of them having any idea how he got there in the first place. Lace boxer briefs might have been involved somehow. Or no boxers briefs at all. Both scenarios work extremely well for him.

But judging by the lack of semi-naked blond on his bed, Grantaire is most definitely not a wizard. The only logical explanation is, therefore, that Courfeyrac has gotten him a Harry Potter-themed stripper for his birthday. Unfortunately, that means that Grantaire is now obviously going to have to kill him and, consequently, force the entire glitter industry into bankruptcy.

The man visibly cringes. “Yes, you’re really not,” he says, stroking his chin. “I’m sorry, my daughter told me to tell you that. She said it would make it easier for you to trust me. I take it it didn’t work?”

“Not really,” Grantaire says dryly.

“Right,” the man says. “My name is Jean Valjean. Your stepmother sent me.”

Which is a nice story but... “I don’t have a stepmother.”

“Yes, you do. She is - she _was_ married to your father.”

“I’ve got a father?” Grantaire asks, his voice a little more high pitched than he’d intended, as his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. 

Valjean blinks. “Yes? Er, you do know where babies come from, don’t you? When a man and a woman love each other very much - ”

“Oh, God,“ Grantaire yelps nervously. “Wait, no, I know _that_ , please don’t - “

“Well, then,” the man says, relief clear in the way his shoulders relax. “Your stepmother wants to see you. Privately. And preferably not in a bathroom. And sooner rather than later. In fact, right now would be just perfect. I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“It’s my birthday party, I can’t - “

“You can say your goodbyes and come with me. It’s time for you to come into your destiny. Your country needs you,” Jean Valjean says in the same dramatic tone as before and Grantaire resists the urge to throw a shampoo bottle at his head. Valjean opens the door and turns back to smile kindly at Grantaire. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Can I call you Hagrid?” Grantaire asks, because if he gets a mysterious visitor for his birthday he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth.

“I’d really rather you didn’t,” Valjean says.

“You’re no fun,” Grantaire complains, following Valjean out of the bathroom and out of the house while mumbling some bullshit about ‘family problems’ to all his friends, and finally stumbling into the backseat of a black limousine parked just outside.

Next birthday, he’ll let Courfeyrac get him the damned stripper.

\---

“So, are we there yet?” Grantaire asks, approximately two minutes into the car ride.

“Not yet,” Jean Valjean replies patiently from the driver’s seat.

“Right,” Grantaire nods to himself. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me where we’re going?”

“I’ve told you - your stepmother wants to see you,” Valjean says, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yes, you’ve told me that,” Grantaire says slowly. “But that makes no sense. Because there are these things called ‘knocking on someone’s door’’. You may have heard of them? A bit conventional, maybe, but sometimes conventionality isn’t a bad thing. Not when the other option is jumping out of a birthday cake at someone’s eighteenth birthday party, at least.”

“And that’s what I would have done if my relationship with Javert wasn’t what you’d call - Er.” Valjean gulps audibly. “That is to say, your grandfather isn’t particularly fond of me. Or of the rest of your family. At least not right now. Well, or ever really. This felt like the smarter, safer choice.”

“Hiding inside a birthday cake, gatecrashing a birthday party and kidnapping someone seemed like the “smarter, safer choice”? As opposed to, I don’t know, _a phone call_?”

“I was told to think outside the box,” Valjean says defensively.

“And you thought ‘outside the box’ by thinking ‘inside the cake’?” Grantaire asks in disbelief.

“Yes?” Valjean asks, blinking up at Grantaire through the rearview mirror. “But anyway, this is hardly a kidnap attempt. You came with me of your own free will.”

Grantaire shrugs carelessly. “I had nothing better to do this weekend. And I’m honestly baffled as to why anyone would want to kidnap me. If it’s money you’re looking for I am _really_ not the person you want to kidnap. And, honestly? I was curious. Enjolras has always said that if I ever were to get arrested I’d probably just annoy the cops until they decided to release me of their own free will, just so they wouldn’t have to listen to me anymore. So I decided to put that theory to the test with you. In case you _were_ going to kidnap me.” He frowns. “But then I suppose I’d only have tested the theory with a kidnapper and not a cop, which isn’t exactly the same thing, of course, but in case you do happen to be kidnapping me, I still think conclusions can be drawn from your reaction to me and applied to how the police would behave. Of course, there are certain limitations, given -  “

Valjean groans from behind the wheel and resolutely pulls up the privacy divider between them.

“Rude,” Grantaire says to the empty air.

\---

Grantaire is just starting to settle in for a nap when he notices that Valjean has finally started to slow down the car. When he looks out of the window, he finds himself in the obnoxiously rich part of town.

Huh. Doesn’t Enjolras live around here somewhere? If this was all an elaborate prank on Courfeyrac’s part and Grantaire’s going to find himself tied to Enjolras’ bed, Courfeyrac will die screaming.

But apparently it isn’t, because Valjean drives past Enjolras’ house without even a glance. Finally, he drives through what looks like a high-security gate at the end of the street, with the guard barely sparing them a look.

“We’re here,” Valjean says, pulling the privacy divider back down.

“This is the weirdest kidnapping attempt I’ve ever been a part of,” Grantaire complains loudly.

“Have you been a part of many kidnapping attempts?” Valjean asks with a frown, as he drives slowly past the imposing gardens and straight to the front door.

“Er, kind of?” Grantaire says thoughtfully. “I mean, Courfeyrac does regularly try to lock me in a closet with Enjolras. Does that count?”

“Interesting people, your friends,” Valjean says.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Grantaire says with a shrug.

“Right,” Valjean announces and parks the car. Before Grantaire realizes what is happening, Valjean is out of his seat and opening Grantaire’s door for him.

“I could’ve opened that,” Grantaire complains loudly. “You know, this is terrible kidnapping etiquette, I’m quite sure you’re supposed to - “

“ _Please_ don’t start that again.”

“You’re _really_ no fun,” Grantaire says with a pout. “Worst kidnapper _ever_. I bet all the other kidnappers made fun of you at kidnapping school.”

“Are you always like this? Or do you just _really_ want to test your friend’s theory?”

“I like to believe it’s just my sunny, talkative disposition shining through.” Grantaire grins mischievously. “Of course, maybe I’m just trying to make you fall in love with me in a reverse Stockholm syndrome sort of way, but - “

Valjean responds only by rolling his eyes and gently shoving him towards the door.

“Alright, alright,” Grantaire complains. “No need to get handsy now.”

As he walks into the house and through long, richly-carpeted corridors, Grantaire can’t help but let out a low whistle. “Well, this is almost too pretentious to function. And, yet again, terrible kidnapping technique - aren’t you supposed to take me to a creepy abandoned warehouse?”

Valjean ignores him, before stopping in front of a closed door and gently knocking on it.

“You can come in,” a soft, female voice says from the other side and, when Valjean opens the door Grantaire, finds himself inside a small office, with an antique-looking mahogany desk and a brown-haired, brown-eyed woman that he finds vaguely familiar sitting behind it.

“Hello,” the woman says and Grantaire takes a good, long look at her. She can’t be any older than forty, and although there are large black circles under her eyes and her hair isn’t as tidy as it could be she still radiates regality out of every pore.

“Um,” Grantaire gulps, “You _really_ weren’t what I was expecting.”.

The woman smiles kindly and gestures to the chair in front of the desk. “My name is Fantine. Please sit down.”

Grantaire takes the seat and resists the urge to complain about the place. He really doesn’t like it - much like he doesn’t usually like things that scream _ostentatious douchebag_ \- but he can’t help but take in the floor-to-ceiling windows and speculate on the absolutely spectacular lighting the place must get during the day. He wonders if they’d be willing to rent it out to poor high school-age artists. Probably not.

“So, who the hell are you?” Grantaire asks.

The woman smiles softly and takes a deep breath. She looks tired, Grantaire thinks. Tired and kind. “I’m your stepmother. And I’m sorry you have to find out like this, but your father is dead.”

“Okay.” Grantaire shrugs.

She gasps. “You don’t care?”

“Why should I?” Grantaire says. “He never called, not even after my mother died.” His mother died when he was very young and he doesn’t remember it, not really. He was three years-old when it happened and he knows now that there was a drunk driver, but all he can remember is the silence that a loving voice used to fill.

The woman sighs sadly, looking at him with pity clear in her eyes. “Yes, I know. Your father did always wanted to be in contact with you, though. There was an initial agreement with your mother but then, when she died, your grandfather wasn’t that... accommodating about how you’d be raised. And then I married your father and you were never supposed to know about your heritage.”

“I have a heritage?” Why the hell do these people keep talking to him about destinies and heritages?

“There’s something you must know, about your father,” she says, looking at him with pity in her eyes.

“Okay?” Grantaire says, frowning.

“Your father... Your father was the King of Genovia.”

Grantaire can’t stop himself from snorting.  “You know, that is a terrible stage name. I mean, it’s not as bad as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, of course, but then again very few things are. I suppose he probably couldn’t have pulled off calling himself Cher or Madonna, but that still doesn’t mean - “

Fantine only shakes her head at him. “Genovia is an actual country, sweetheart. I was married to your father for many years but we never conceived a child together. And now that your father has passed away, you are the Crown Prince of Genovia.”

And Grantaire can’t help it - he falls out of his chair laughing at her words. “This is the worst kidnap attempt ever. I’m asking for a refund on my way out of the door. And for an actual stripper, I mean -”

“I know this must come as a shock to you, but Genovia must have a prince - “ Fantine starts to say.

“That’s _really_ not me - “ Grantaire says from the floor.

“You have a responsibility - “

“No, I don’t. I don’t even play Sims because I don’t want to be responsible for fictional lives, what makes you think putting me in charge of an actual country would be a good idea?”

“I’m sure you’ll be a great King, we can help you learn - “

“No!” Grantaire shouts, finally getting up from the floor.

“The people loved your father, I’m sure they will grow to love you as well - “

“No.”

“There is no reason - “

“Look, no - I don’t even speak Genovian, I don’t know what the fuck do you want from me but  - “

“Even Genovians don’t speak Genovian. Genovians speak English, this isn’t -”

“I’m not a prince, I’m an artist.” There. That ought to clear it up for his new stepmother.

“I’m the current Regent Queen of Genovia and I have my employees jump out of birthday cakes to, as you so kindly put it, kidnap people. An artist king isn’t so bad, all things considered.”

“I’m really, really gay.” There, _that_ ought to put a stop to all monarchy conversations.

Except, of course, it doesn’t. “Well,” Fantine says slowly. “What a king does in the privacy of his own bedroom is no one else’s business. Some arrangements will have to be made, of course, when the time comes - I am not fond of adoption but in vitro fertilization ought to be a good choice. As long as the baby is genetically yours, there is no reason why you shouldn’t raise it with whoever you want - ”

“Whoever I want is an anti-monarchy, outspoken, self-righteous, straightforward, sanctimonious holier-than-thou, loud asshole democrat who masturbates to social justice, Anonymous, and Wikileaks.” Which is probably a moot point because Enjolras acts like he barely knows Grantaire exists most of the time but the idea of Grantaire’s... _Consort King,_ god help him, being someone like that ought to be enough to show Fantine how bad of a choice Grantaire would be for a King. He’s also aware that he may be exaggerating quite a bit here - Enjolras is only _sort of_ all of those things - or at least he is all of those things in a good, caring way. It’s sweet, really. But playing it up for Fantine’s sake probably won’t hurt.

She shrugs, looking completely calm. “At least he’s not a Belieber.”

Which Grantaire has no idea what to do with. So he does the only thing he can think of. He runs away.

And he’s _really_ not thinking things through right now (not that he usually thinks things through) but the moment he runs out of the door he notices the parked limo. He doesn’t remember Valjan taking the key from the ignition. He does remember how easily Valjean got through the security gates.

Grantaire knows it’s a terrible decision.

He doesn’t care.

He steals the limo.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](http://coolfeyrad.tumblr.com)


	3. The one with the spray paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to Grantaire that if his life was a fairytale—and _shit_ , he just found out he’s a long lost prince, so who’s to say it isn’t?—now would be a good place for it to start. The author would write something witty like ‘it’s a truth universally acknowledged that an angry Grantaire in possession of a stolen limo must be in want of a blond activist with whom to vandalize said limo’ and think of how the readers would swoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [Kate](http://katefeyrac.tumblr.com) and [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/), who are both lovely.
> 
> So, I know it's been a while. But at least it's really long? And I swear it won't take me months to post the next one.

It occurs to Grantaire that if his life was a fairytale—and _shit_ , he just found out he’s a long lost prince, so who’s to say it isn’t?—now would be a good place for it to start. The author would write something witty like ‘it’s a truth universally acknowledged that an angry Grantaire in possession of a stolen limo must be in want of a blond activist with whom to vandalize said limo’ and think of how the readers would swoon.

Grantaire himself wouldn’t swoon; Grantaire himself would punch—most definitely the writer, and probably himself as well, just for getting himself into such a ridiculous predicament in the first place.

Several things clue in Grantaire to the fact that his life isn’t a fairytale. Number one: the number of dragons he has slayed in order to rescue long-lost princess locked in towers by evil witches (which is zero). Number two: the number of people in his life who tend to burst into spontaneous song (which is one, unfortunately, but he’s not sure Courfeyrac knows that he’s not actually a Disney character, so that probably explains it). Number three: the number of woodland creatures that have helped him dress himself (which is three, assuming ducks count as woodland creatures, but he still has no idea how they got into his bedroom in the first place and seeing as Enjolras had been wearing particularly tight pants the previous day, it really isn’t outside the realm of possibility that Grantaire hallucinated them due to extensive brain damage brought on by terminal sexual frustration). He also owns no glass slippers, doesn’t have ankle-length hair, has never lived with seven dwarves, and is too much of an insomniac to ever pull off Sleeping Beauty. (There’s also the small problem that the mere thought of being Grantaire’s One True Love would probably give his would-be prince a One True Aneurysm, but Grantaire really would rather not think about that without a bottle of vodka within a ten inch radius of himself).

The fact that Grantaire is not a fairytale character, however, does not mean that Jane Austen references are necessarily a bad thing. It just means that a much more accurate version of that opening sentence would be, ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that Grantaire has terrible decision-making skills.” Clear, concise, and straight to the point.

Evidence in point: he’s, a) stolen a limo, and, b) using said limo to drive to Enjolras’ house.

Enjolras isn’t usually the one Grantaire, or anyone else, goes to for comfort. That role is usually Courfeyrac’s who, despite loving all things glitter and Disney a lot more than is strictly necessary, is also like a cuddly and warm Samoyed in human form (and if anyone tells Courfeyrac Grantaire said this, he’s going to hunt them all down, force them to eat Enjolras’ cooking and make them pay their own inevitable medical bills). People may even go to Combeferre for comfort, who has pretty much been Dumbledore since the day he was born, all kind words and cool rationality when required, white beard notwithstanding. Grantaire also usually goes to Éponine, who knows just the perfect mix between being a loving friend and threatening to punch him in the face.

However, he’s been driving aimlessly around for hours and Éponine is either asleep or busy with Courfeyrac and that’s something Grantaire has already walked in on enough times to guarantee he’ll need several years of therapy later on, thank you very much. He could technically go bother Combeferre but Combeferre’s parents probably will not appreciated Grantaire showing up at their doorstep in the middle of the night.

Not that Enjolras’ parents will appreciate it, either, but annoying Enjolras is usually so entertaining that it just might be worth it. And if Grantaire’s being honest with himself—and he usually tries not to be, given the circumstances—he just doesn’t quite enjoy Combeferre’s company the way he enjoys Enjolras’. Enjolras is, of course, very distracting, but it’s much more than simply the way he looks (although that, along with his particular inclination for unbearably tight pants, certainly doesn’t hurt). It’s the way he talks, the way he thinks, the way he simply _is_ :  annoying and intense and so willing to fight for the things he believes in, always completely unable to accept that he’s wrong about anything (even though if you ask Grantaire, more often than not, he’s wrong about _everything_ ).

One way or another, picking a fight with Enjolras is guaranteed to wipe Grantaire’s mind of the latest life-changing development to plague him.

Once he finally arrives at Enjolras’ house, parking the car by the side of the road, it’s long past 3AM and he realizes that Enjolras is most likely going to kill him. He shrugs to himself, gets his ass out of the car, and starts picking up pebbles from the ground to throw at Enjolras’ first floor bedroom window (cellphones are so quaint, really).

After a while, once Grantaire has had to bend down again to pick up more pebbles and is seriously considering using his phone (either to call Enjolras or to throw it at his window, he hasn’t decided yet), the window finally slides open, revealing a very sleepy-looking Enjolras, and Grantaire stills his hand, probably just in time to avoid sending a pebble straight at his forehead.

“What?” the blond snaps, peeking his head out at the room to glare at the person waking him up. His impressive glare turns into a worried frown, lines marring his forehead, as he notices Grantaire staring up at him. “Grantaire?”

Enjolras’ hair is a mess—and Grantaire has to admit it’s comforting to know he doesn’t always look like he’s just rolled out of a shampoo commercial, at least—and he’s not wearing a shirt and he looks adorable, all sleepy-eyed and probably still warm and that is absolutely not playing fair.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” Grantaire proclaims loudly up at Enjolras, because while dealing with a hot-looking Enjolras is something he’s mastered by now (some people have Bitchy Resting face—Enjolras has Hot Resting Everything), an adorable-looking Enjolras—which occurs only when he’s very sleepy—is something completely different and the only way Grantaire has found to deal with it is to annoy him so much and so quickly that the adorableness quickly melts into annoyance at Grantaire’s general existence and Enjolras can go back to being his Hot Resting Everything self.

“Do you know how late it is?” Enjolras asks, annoyance seeping into his voice just like Grantaire expected.

“I have come to save you from your tower and your evil stepmother! Let down your hair so I can climb you—” _Fuck_. ”—it! I totally did not say climb you, it was climb _your hair_ , stop looking at me like that.”

“Are you drunk?”

“I was driving,” Grantaire says defensively, because if there’s one thing he does not do is get behind a wheel after he’s been drinking.

Apparently Enjolras knows this, because that’s all the answer he needs, nodding to himself as if he’s arrived at some kind of decision.

“I’ll be down in a second,” he says. “You’re going to wake up my parents, otherwise. Don’t move.”

“What, no—I didn’t mean—Don’t come down here. Oh, Enjolras—”

But it’s useless, the window is sliding shut again and barely more than a minute has passed before the front door is being unlocked and Enjolras is stepping out, wearing red and golden plaid pajamas pants with a white shirt and, for some inane reason, orange flip-flops, still with ridiculous looking hair and a worried look on his face and Grantaire is so very fucked when it comes to this boy it’s not even funny anymore.

“What happened?” he asks, still looking worried, and yeah, Grantaire definitely did not sign up for a worried Enjolras.

“I—Nevermind, I shouldn’t have come here. I just needed—” His eyes narrow as he notices the bandages on Enjolras’ hand. “What happened to your hand?”

It must be just the light (or lack, thereof) playing tricks on him, but for a moment it seems as if Enjolras looks embarrassed, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“Um,” Enjolras says, looking away from him. “I broke a glass.”

“With your bare hands?” Grantaire’s eyebrows travel in the direction of his hairline.

“It was an accident,” Enjolras says defensively.

“Clearly,” Grantaire drawls. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you. I know how late it is, I should probably—”

He turns towards the car but Enjolras’ hand, warm and confident, at his elbow stops him. “What happened?” Enjolras asks. “You _can_ tell me, you know. Who was the man at the party? Are you in trouble, do you need anything?”

The problem is, Grantaire wants to tell him. He does. Sure, Enjolras is an idiot and Grantaire occasionally wants to punch him in the face (not as much as he wants to kiss him, though) but he can also be very kind. Grantaire needs to talk to someone, _anyone_ , about what’s happened but he knows Enjolras, knows how he works and how he feels about all thing social justice and if there’s one thing the blond does not need is another reason to hate him. Still, an edited version of the truth, leaving out the monarchy part, probably won’t hurt.

He opens his mouth to tell Enjolras what’s happening and an entirely different thing comes out. “Come with me,” he says.

It’s selfish and it’s stupid and Enjolras has no reason to go with Grantaire anywhere, let alone at 3AM, but sometimes there’s nothing Grantaire wants more than to have Enjolras’ undivided attention on him, even if it’s just for a little while. He’s expecting Enjolras to say no—prepared for it, actually—but all the blond does is shrug and ask, “Where?”

It’s probably not that surprising, all things considered. Enjolras has always done everything he could for his friends, but he and Grantaire argue so much with each other that Grantaire is never sure what they are to each other, if he can even use the word ‘friend’ at all. The thought that apparently Enjolras thinks he can and considers Grantaire a friend, makes something very warm and very vulnerable settle in his chest.

“Anywhere,” Grantaire says, shrugging a shoulder. “I kind of, er—stole a limo. So to speak. But it’s fine. Probably.” Actually, come to think of it, it probably _is_ fine. Important people have political amnesty, right? He frowns at Enjolras. “Important people have political amnesty, right?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“What?” Enjolras blinks at him. “What are you even—do you actually have a filter for the things coming out of your mouth?”

Which is extremely unfair, considering Grantaire has survived almost ten years now without telling him how desperately in love with him he is. “No,” he says. “I’ve found it keeps people on their toes. But really, do they?”

“It’s diplomatic immunity,” Enjolras says, frowning at him. “And it’s bullshit. And you’re not an important person, just an idiotic one.” His voice is kind, as if softening the blow.

Right. He wonders if he actually technically _is_ an important person. Probably something he’s going to have to check up on later, because if he is then he may actually muster up the energy to do something extremely important for the greater good for once, like punch the assholes who cancelled Firefly, just on principle.

He’s still expecting Enjolras to change his mind and tell him no, to remind him of how late it is and that he has something extremely important and world-saving to do in the morning, like glare at Grantaire just for the Hell of it or watch cartoons until noon for science. Not that Enjolras will ever admit to watching cartoons, which is kind of ridiculous considering how many times Grantaire has walked in on him watching Sailor Moon, but he supposes we all have our kinks and Grantaire is not one to judge. And to be completely honest with himself, if Enjolras wanted him to dress in a Sailor Moon outfit with the ridiculous red boots and the ridiculously short skirt and wave a wand around then that’s what he’d do, even though he really doesn’t quite have Serena’s legs (sue him, he likes the show as well, it’s not his fault that he gets bored and there’s nothing else on TV sometimes). That’s not the point—the point is that he’d absolutely dress up as Sailor Moon for Enjolras even though it’s not his kink. Although he supposes that there’s quite a lot to be said about Enjolras in a skirt—unlike Grantaire he really does have the legs for it—and his hair is also not a bad fit for the part. Grantaire can’t quite see Enjolras letting him put it up on pigtails, but it’s not as if Enjolras would ever wear a skirt for him in the first place, of course. Still, there’s nothing wrong with—

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, waving a hand in front of Grantaire’s eyes. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? Granted, it’s not as if you usually pay that much attention to what I tell you, but your face has gone all flushed and you started mumbling about Sailor Moon and short skirts.”

“I,” Grantaire says, taking a very deep, very steadying breath, “have no idea what you’re saying. Now, would you like to take a ride in my noble steed?”

“Your noble steed?” Enjolras frowns.

“My limo,” Grantaire says with a snort.

“Yes, but why do you have a limo?”

“Because I stole it. Honestly, Apollo, don’t you ever pay attention to me?” At the confused look on Enjolras’ face, he adds, “Alright fine, it belonged to my father’s family but they’re all assholes so it serves them right.”

“I thought you didn’t know your father.”

“I don’t. And I won’t, because apparently he’s dead. And it’s just perfect, because fuck knows he never gave a fuck about me but now apparently they need for some family heritage bullshit so they’re super interested in us becoming each other’s BFFs. So, of course, I got mad and stole a limo.” He shrugs. “It’s okay, though, I’ll probably give it back tomorrow or something and they want my help too much to not let it go.”

Not that Grantaire is even considering doing what they want him to, because he is absolutely not going to rule a small European country. Or anything else. He can’t even look after himself most of the time, how the Hell is he expected to look after millions of people?

“Have you talked to your grandfather?” Enjolras asks, and he looks worried and a little bit something else, something that vaguely resembles anger even though it makes no sense.

“Have I talked to—No,” Grantaire chuckles, equal parts startled and sad. “We don’t really do the whole talking thing, Enjolras. He nods and I nod and there’s a whole lot of nodding going on. I don’t even want to— _Fuck_. I thought he left, you know? That he didn’t give a fuck. And my grandfather never told me anything about him. And now they need me and I just...”

“Now you just?” Enjolras prods.

“I don’t know, I just feel like I need to break something. I really shouldn’t have come, I’m sorry. I just needed to not go home and find something to distract me and you and me… well…”

“We always end up yelling at each other five minutes into any conversation?” Enjolras asks. There’s a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Enjolras says and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that always means trouble for someone. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says and darts back into the house.

A couple of minutes go by and Grantaire’s about to go look for him when he comes running out again, carrying two large plastic bags with him.

“What the fuck, did you rob your parents’ fridge?”

“Just get on the fucking limo, Grantaire,” Enjolras snaps.

“But of course! Will my liege be taking the backseat or gracing me instead with the pleasure of his company in the front seat?”

“You are such an idiot,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes as Grantaire walks him silently back to the limo, but his voice sounds oddly warm and fond.

“I don’t even want to know how much gas this uses up, do I?” He asks Grantaire, once he’s fully seated beside him. 

“Probably not, no,” Grantaire says, starting the car.

Enjolras is quiet for a long time and once Grantaire starts to worry that his brain has short circuited due to close proximity to such a capitalist contraption, he finally asks, in a very small voice, as he absentmindedly plays with the edges of the plastic bags on his lap, “If you promise not to tell anyone, can I actually tell you that these seats are obnoxiously comfortable?”

Grantaire laughs before he can stop himself. “I think you’re supposed to wait for my answer before you start telling me all your dirty little secrets.”

“I know I can trust you.” Enjolras shrugs and Grantaire feels like he’s been punched in the throat. One of these days Enjolras is going to say something like that and Grantaire is going to lunge across the seats and punch Enjolras’ mouth with his own mouth and then the car is going to crash and they’re both going to die and Courfeyrac is going to cry and drown himself in a bathtub full of glitter because while he’s probably won every single stupid bet their friends have been on his non-existent romantic life with Enjolras, he’s also lost two best friends and it’s going to be a very troubling time of his life and he won’t even have Grantaire there to throw pillows at his head to keep his drama-queening in check.

This time he manages to control himself—just barely—and sticks his tongue out at Enjolras, just to spite him, instead.

“Very mature, Grantaire,” Enjolras grumbles.

“You still haven’t told me what’s in the bag. What’s in the bag? What’s in the baaaag, Enjolras? I’m about to go full Brad Pitt in Seven here.”

“You are _never_ watching movies with Bahorel again,” Enjolras scolds. “And it’s—a surprise. Just drive somewhere without lots of people there, will you?”

“If you want to be alone with me all you have to do is ask,” Grantaire says jokingly, with a lot more bravado than he feels (which isn’t that hard, seeing as he feels no bravado at all).

“You are such an idiot,” Enjolras says, but the tips of his ears are adorably flushed.

Grantaire ignores him for a moment, and turns up the volume of the radio. He doesn’t know where to drive to, exactly, and “somewhere without lots of people there” is really shitty directions, seeing as it’s 3AM and everyone with a drop of common sense is asleep on their bed. He drives aimlessly around for a while, and then notices a playground with swing-sets and a slide, and it’s not as if he has any idea what Enjolras has in mind or what’s in the bags, so it’ll have to do.

He parks just by the pavement and once they’re both out the car Enjolras finally, _finally_ lets him see what he was carrying inside the plastic bags and it’s possible Grantaire has never loved him more than he does at this very moment, from his orange flip-flops to the still frankly ridiculous bedhead that he didn’t even bother to try to comb.

Inside the bags there are paint sprays, in about fifteen different colors and Grantaire has no idea how Enjolras even got them in the first place but that really isn’t important right now because—

“You are a God,” he says in a rush.

Enjolras smiles like the cat that swallowed the canary, smug and satisfied. “I had them around from the protest last month. You said you were going to give back the limo tomorrow, but you never said you were going to do it in that state that you found it in.”

Grantaire really wants to answer, but isn’t quite sure what will come out of his mouth if he does. He’ll probably end up sinking down to his knees and swearing eternal love to Enjolras and that’s a really bad idea.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he coos, instead, voice teasing and just on the edge of mocking, but he puts just enough warmth in it for Enjolras to know he’s genuinely happy.

Enjolras shrugs, pushes the bags into Grantaire’s hands and leans lazily against the fence.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Grantaire asks, frowning at him.

Enjolras frowns back. “Leaning back against a fence?” He deadpans.

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. I mean—”

“You’re the artist, not me.”

“Oh no, you can’t do this,” Grantaire says wagging his finger in what he hopes is a very threatening manner. Judging by the way Enjolras’ lips quirk up, he misses it by about a mile. “You don’t get to talk me into committing a felony—”

“Spray painting a limo is hardly a felony—”

“—while you watch. How do I know this wasn’t your evil plan all along to get me arrested just because I was the one who poured coffee all over your copy of The Communist Manifesto that one time?”

“You were the one who poured coffee all over my copy of The Communist Manifesto? And you didn’t tell me?” Enjolras snaps.

“That is—that is not the point. The point is that I am not going to go to jail for vandalizing a limo while you sit on your pretty white ass down and make fun of me, while probably taking lots of incriminating pictures that will be used as evidence later on.” He narrows his eyes at Enjolras. “Was this your plan all along? Wait—are you currently planning to tell the cops that I’ve kidnapped you when they do come to arrest me?”

“Have you any idea how ridiculous you sound?” Enjolras asks, sounding genuinely interested. “As if you could ever kidnap me.”

“Excuse you, _I_ do kickboxing and you fight like… well, like Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras snorts. “You have never seen Courfeyrac fight, have you?”

“No? I haven’t seen you, either, and yet here we are and my point still remains.”

“Sometimes,” Enjolras says slowly, “I think you’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.

“Aaw, I love it when you talk dirty,” Grantaire says mischievously. “Wait, no—you don’t get to distract me with your seductive ways. We’re both vandalizing this car. It’s the most democratic thing to do. Well, I suppose technically the most democratic thing to do would be to not have stolen a car in the first place, of course, but the point remains that you are getting off your ass and helping me.”

“You’re the artist, not me,” Enjolras says defensively. “I just—suggest things.”

“I really don’t think they’re going to be showing whatever it is I do to this car in the MET, Apollo. Come up, here you go,” he says and tosses Enjolras a red paint sprayer.

“What am I supposed to do this?” Enjolras asks, catching it mid-air and staring wide-eyed at Grantaire.

“Draw a rainbow?” he suggests.

“You only gave me red paint.”

“Draw a red rainbow?

Enjolras looks as if he’d like nothing better than to throw the can straight at Grantaire’s head.

“You can’t hit me,” Grantaire says. “You don’t have a driver’s license and you’d be stranded here all alone.”

“You shall live to see another day, then,” Enjolras declares magnanimously and starts to spray down the trunk of the car.

He’s doing something that Grantaire isn’t quite sure what to call (though red blob would probably be a safe choice) and then Grantaire suddenly figures out the perfect thing to draw.

“I know what we’re going to do! We’re going to draw Teletubbies!”

“You want to draw Teletubbies,” Enjolras echoes.

“Yes.”

“On a limo.”

“Yes.”

“With my help?”

“I believe that was implied, yes.”

“I really can’t draw, Grantaire. I’ve told you this! I’m glad to watch you do it, of course, but—”

“Oh, you are such an idiot, come here,” Grantaire says, before he can think this idea through and pulls Enjolras’ wrist to him. He’s surprised at how easily Enjolras goes.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Enjolras asks.

It’s really, really not one of Grantaire’s best or brightest ideas. He positions Enjolras’ wrist on top of the nozzle and then puts his hand on top of Enjolras’ to guide him along. His skin tingles anywhere they’re touching and it’s a really, really bad idea and Grantaire has no idea why he’s still allowed to make any life choices at all.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, turning around to stare at Grantaire and his voice sounds high-pitched and sort of breathless and Grantaire definitely did not think this through.

“Helping you,” Grantaire says, hating himself, Enjolras, the world and everyone in it. Enjolras’ hands are warm beneath his and as Enjolras turns back to the limo he gets a faceful of blond hair and it takes everything he’s got not to breath in and bury his face in it.

“Do you know,” Grantaire says instead, “that your hair smells like mangoes?”

Grantaire loves mangoes and Enjolras smells like mangoes and it’s not fair.

“New shampoo,” Enjolras says. “Do you like it?”

Grantaire hums instead of answering. It seems like the safer choice.

He guides Enjolras’ hand as his fingers press the sprayer, sending paint flying against the limo. Somehow—and he’s really not sure how and will go to his grave defending that he had nothing to do with it—their bodies end up fitted together, with Enjolras’ back pressed to Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire has to bite his lip to stop himself from whimpering. He tries very, very hard to focus on the patterns the paint makes on the car, rather than on Enjolras’ body pressed to his. This is absolutely the worst idea he’s ever had, Éponine is making all his choices from now on and won’t that be a treat for all involved? Maybe he should get her to be the Edward Cullen to his Bella Swan.

“Do you think I should get Éponine to be the Edward Cullen to my Bella Swan?” he asks Enjolras, because he doesn’t really have much of a mental filter (except for the one that allows him to be around Enjolras and not profess undying love and thank God for small mercies).

“What?” Enjolras says, craning his neck to blink at Grantaire and bad move, definitely bad move because he doesn’t move anything else and Grantaire still has his hand on top of Enjolras’ on the stupid sprayer. They’re still ridiculously close together and Enjolras’ lips are right _there_ and Grantaire is absolutely going to die before the night is through.

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak—something obnoxious, of course—but no words come out and that is definitely another bad move, because it catches Enjolras’ attention and now he’s staring at Grantaire’s lips in that intense, world-stopping intense way of his. Grantaire’s heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest and he’s painfully aware of just how close Enjolras is, just how he’d only need to press forward a couple of inches to bring their lips together.

It’s a bad idea, it’s a terrible idea, it’s the worst idea anyone has ever had in the entire history of time—and that’s including skrillex. Grantaire knows this and it’s why he’s going to pull away and try to pass it off as a joke as soon as he knows how to think again. Enjolras won’t stop _staring_ and now he’s licked his lips, still staring at Grantaire’s mouth and Grantaire’s brain has clearly left the building and put up a sign saying ‘sorry dude, gone fishing’.

And fuck it, it’s ridiculous but Grantaire is going to kiss him and completely regret it in the morning but to Hell with it. He leans in and Enjolras leans in as well, a soft smile on his lips, and it’s only a matter of seconds until their lips come in contact with each other. And then Grantaire is most definitely going to die, be it a heart attack or by Enjolras’ own hands for misreading this so hard, and his grave is going to have to read ‘Here lies Grantaire, he tried to kiss Enjolras’ and it’s going to be absolutely worth it.

There’s just one problem: Grantaire often forgets things. Right now, he forgets that his hand is still on top of Enjolras’, which is still on top of the fucking spray can and there’s a moment, just the space of a breath, where he squeezes Enjolras’ hand for courage or to give him time to jump back or _something_ and the sound of Enjolras’ whimpering is almost—but not quite—enough to drown out the sound of the can of spray going off and before he knows what is happening there is a great big blob of red paint all over Enjolras’ pajamas and he looks like he’s been shot.

It’s enough to startle Enjolras and he pulls away from Grantaire so fast that it looks as if he’s been burnt by Grantaire’s touch.

His cheeks are very flushed and his eyes are wild, and Grantaire tries to stammer out an apology, manages to get out a, “Sor—” before Enjolras is turning back to him and spraying Grantaire’s shirt as well.

Right. Enjolras is giving him an out so he can pretend the almost-kiss never happened and not embarrass himself any further than he already has and Grantaire is going to go along with it even if kills him.

“This is Sparta!” he shouts, forcing himself to smile.

“No, this is a paint war,” Enjolras says, and his smile seems just as forced as Grantaire’s. Regardless, he reaches for a handful of paint cans and before Grantaire knows what is happening he’s reaching for another handful of them and soon they are both sprayed down with several different colors and looking like they just got puked on by several rainbows.

And it’s nice, it’s very nice, and he doesn’t often get to see Enjolras like this—almost never, if he’s being completely honest—but he looks happy and young for once, with a ridiculously bright violet stripe painted on his hair, and Grantaire is very glad that he was the one to put that smile on his face.

Still, a part of him wonders what would’ve happened if they hadn’t gotten cockblocked by a fucking can of paint, because he could’ve sworn, if only for a moment, that Enjolras had leaned in for the kiss as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](http://coolfeyrad.tumblr.com)


	4. The one with the shared bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any idea what you’re going to do?” Enjolras asks, biting his lip.
> 
> “Move to Alaska and become a Tibetan monk?”
> 
> Enjolras chuckles and it’s really, really not fair. The only Enjolras Grantaire ever gets to see is calm, controlled, and always has his guard up. This Enjolras is more open, and something about his expression is much more vulnerable than Grantaire is ever used to seeing and he doesn’t quite know what to do with that knowledge.
> 
> “That makes no discernible sense,” Enjolras says, “I mean, that’s like saying you’d move to Ecuador to become an eskimo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [Nat](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/), as per usual.

Grantaire is very warm when he wakes up. Which is weird, because he is definitely not in his bed. That is definitely not his blanket on top of him. And the blond boy curled around him is definitely not his—

What. The. Fuck.

He closes his eyes as fast as he can and counts to five. His brain hasn’t quite done this before, but he’s always had a very active imagination so he supposes it was only a matter of time until something like this happened. Closing his eyes doesn’t help though. He can still feel someone’s breath against his neck. Stray hair strands are tickling his nose. He cracks one eye open again and looks down at his chest. Blond hair is still absolutely everywhere.

Something even weirder appears to be going on—he seems to have a hand buried in that blond hair.

He tries to move, shift his hips a little so he can transfer most of the weight on top of himself to the bed but Enjolras makes a sleepy noise that sounds vaguely like protest and curls himself even tighter around Grantaire, one leg throw over Grantaire’s hips and one warm arm splayed across Grantaire’s stomach.

Of all the terrible things Grantaire had predicted would happen when Enjolras had suggested that Grantaire spend the rest of the night in his house, Grantaire never considered that being cuddled to death would be an option. Dying after cuddling Enjolras? Sure. Getting cuddled by Enjolras? Not so much.

It was a good idea, Enjolras had said at the time, a practical idea. This way Grantaire would have time to figure out what to say to his grandfather, Enjolras had said. He could take Enjolras’ couch, Enjolras had said. The first two arguments were sound reasoning. The one about Grantaire taking the couch was the most ridiculous thing Enjolras had ever said. Because while during the day he usually moves with a catlike grace that would be annoying if it wasn’t so hot, that really only happens _during_ the day, when he gets sufficient light. It’s very distressing to find out Enjolras doesn’t have a bat’s night vision. He doesn’t even have a cat’s night vision. He probably has something vaguely around a desk’s night vision, and desks don’t have eyes at all.

After about five minutes of Enjolras tripping over absolutely every single item of furniture in the room his father had started grumbling from the master bedroom and Enjolras had finally given up on finding Grantaire a stray blanket, ignored him when he said he’d sleep fine on the couch without blankets and dragged him to bed with him. He’d even chucked Grantaire an extra t-shirt and a pair of pajamas pants, which were slightly too small for him and smelled entirely too much like Enjolras under the flowery smell of fabric softener.

It was a terrible idea. It didn’t necessarily _have_ to be a bad idea, because it was a queen size bed and therefore it should’ve been big enough to both of them, but apparently Enjolras’ opinions about equality don’t apply to bed sharing, because he decided to use Grantaire as a human pillow as soon as he fell asleep and had wrapped himself around the other boy, sighing happily in his sleep—and that is not equal bed sharing. That is unfair bed sharing, and is probably going to be one of the many, many things that are going to cause Grantaire’s death sooner or later.

He tried not to fall asleep, because being awake for this seemed much, much safer—but Enjolras was far too comfortable as a blanket, too warm, his warm breath too soothing and overall far more adorable than what should be legally allowed and sooner rather than later Grantaire found his eyelids drooping and the next thing he remembers is waking up this morning with Enjolras _still_ using him as a pillow.

Which, don’t get him wrong, waking up tangled with a still-sleeping Enjolras who will not let Grantaire move away from him is a perfect way to wake up (or an _almost_ perfect way to wake up, as perfect would probably require a couple of blowjobs). However, it doesn’t change the fact that sooner or later, Enjolras is going to have to wake up. He’s going to wake and realize he’s just been octopussing Grantaire to death the entire night and then he’s probably going to hang Grantaire by his heels and—

“Stop thinking so much, Grantaire,” Enjolras yawns. “It’s far too early for—”

Enjolras blushes. Grantaire can’t even see it, with Enjolras’ head pressed into his chest as it is, but he can feel it, scalding hot against his bare skin and Enjolras’ body, which had been soft and sleep-pliable, turns stiff and unresponding above him.

“I am sorry,” Enjolras says, with a cold, rough voice. “I didn’t mean to—I—”

He moves lighting quick, faster than Grantaire ever thought possible, octopus limbs retreating into his body and curls back into himself, looking at anything but at Grantaire. “You are not a pillow and I’m sorry for using you as one.”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, because he thought Enjolras would explode and this distant, almost shy and embarrassed Enjolras is definitely not something that he deals with in a daily basis. Then he lies straight through his teeth, “It wasn’t really—I mean, I only just woke up and you decided to use me as a bed. It’s fine, you weren’t on top of me long enough to stop my breathing abilities. You probably just rolled over because I’m warmer than the mattress.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Enjolras says, sounding relieved. “I didn’t want to squish you.”

“I should probably go,” Grantaire says with a sigh. “I still have a limo to return and I’m sure my grandpa will be waiting at home ready to flail me for not coming home last night.”

“Oh,” Enjolras blinks at him. “I texted Éponine when you first came here to let her know you’re okay. I think she texted him that you were babysitting with her for the rest of night because her parents were out again doing God knows what.”

Grantaire frowns at him and it appears they’ve reached another one of the times where Enjolras actually seems nervous. “Should I—er, should I not have? I just didn’t want her to worry, and it seemed like you were going to come home late anyway so—”

“No, it’s fine,” Grantaire says. He turns on the bed to stare at Enjolras with a smile dancing at the corner of his lips. “Thank you. For the company last night and for the bed and for texting Éponine.”

“Any idea what you’re going to do?” Enjolras asks, biting his lip.

“Move to Alaska and become a Tibetan monk?”

Enjolras chuckles and it’s really, really not fair. The only Enjolras Grantaire ever gets to see is calm, controlled, and always has his guard up. This Enjolras is more open, and something about his expression is much more vulnerable than Grantaire is ever used to seeing and he doesn’t quite know what to do with that knowledge.

“That makes no discernible sense,” Enjolras says. “I mean, that’s like saying you’d move to Ecuador to become an eskimo.”

“Exactly. That way no one is expecting it and when I tell them I’m becoming a Tibetan monk they won’t think to look for me in fucking Alaska.”

“I’d miss you if you went to Alaska,” Enjolras says softly, quietly, and Grantaire’s heart appears to be trying to do the macarena inside his chest.

“Better get used to the thought,” Grantaire says. “If I move somewhere it’s going to be even farther away than that. Genovia, from I’ve heard. Which, as it turns out, is not just Ginny Weasley’s first name. Or is it Ginny Potter now?”

“What?” Enjolras gasps, turning eyes filled with surprise on him. “That’s not funny, Grantaire. Why would you say that?”

“Oh, because it’s hilarious from where I’m standing,” Grantaire deadpans. “Really, dream life for me. Move to Genovia to become fucking...” His voice trails off as he tries to think about what to say.

“Yes?” Enjolras prods.

“—restaurant chain owner.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, eyes wide and confused.

“My family owes the biggest restaurant chain in Genovia,” Grantaire says, voicing the first though to come to his mind. He’s very impressed with himself, as being in a bed with Enjolras is not very conducive to higher brain functions.

Enjolras blinks sleepy eyes at him. “There’s a restaurant chain in Genovia?”

“Apparently,” Grantaire shrugs bitterly. He swears his brain really works much better when he’s not sharing a bed with Enjolras. He supposes it could be worse—at least Enjolras is wearing proper clothes, pajama pants and a white shirt, so clearly the universe has taken some pity on him. Still, he’d much rather not be having this conversation at all.

“Are you going to do it?” Enjolras asks.

“No,” Grantaire shrugs because it’s not on the table, completely not an option, no way in Hell is he going to get talked into this, no matter how much they beg and ask him nicely and try to bribe him with ponies. He could maybe reconsider for a unicorn, because it’s a great big white horse with a horn and what more could you want out of a pet? He doesn’t think that’s a choice, unfortunately, so he won’t change his mind. “Do you have any idea—Forget it, you wouldn’t understand.”

“What?” Enjolras’ hand reaches for Grantaire arm. It’s very warm against his skin. “Tell me,” he asks, and it’s a request, not an order as it so often it is with Enjolras and that’s what gets Grantaire to start talking on the first place, even though he still doesn’t want to tell Enjolras the whole truth.

“Your parents adore you and that’s, you know, of course they do, you’re the poster boy for everything that’s right in the world and whatnot but it’s not like that for the rest of us,” he tries to explain.

“Do you think your grandfather isn’t proud of you, as well? I know he may not always show it, but—”

Grantaire chuckles sadly. “No, that’s not it—You know your parents. You know who you are. I don’t, not really. I barely even remember my mom, most of what I know about her I learnt through pictures and stories my grandpa tells on the anniversary of her death. And I didn’t have—there was no one else, you know? There was just the two of us, and I would have loved it if—well.” He can’t believe he’s having this conversation in Enjolras’ bed, wearing Enjolras’ clothes, even _smelling_ like Enjolras, with Enjolras staring fixedly at him.

“What?” Enjolras asks again, gentle and kind, and that’s exactly the kind of thing Grantaire has no defense against, because that’s not usually how their relationship dynamic works.

“He didn’t care. My father, he—It never mattered. And it’s not—I’m not fucking Dean Winchester, telling my fucking life story like boo fucking hoo daddy never loved, that’s not the fucking point.” He’s lying, though, and he knows it because while it’s not the whole point, it’s definitely part of it, and it’s something Grantaire might admit to Éponine after a few too many drinks, but not to Enjolras, not like this, not when Grantaire hates to be vulnerable in front of everyone so much, but most of all the blond. “I just didn’t matter to him. And that’s his fucking prerogative, you know, whatever, you’re not required to love someone just because you gave them half your genetic material but if you don’t care then you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up out of nowhere, just trample into someone else’s life and say your happiness trumpets theirs, that their plans—or lack thereof—don’t fucking matter.”

Courfeyrac would’ve hugged him. Éponine would either have hugged him or punched him—hard to tell with her most of the time—though to be fair she’d probably have done both. Combeferre would maybe have hugged him as well. All of them would probably have seen straight through his bullshit and seen the deeper issue hidden beneath Grantaire’s words. They’d have tried to comfort him and he’d probably have hated every second of it.

Enjolras doesn’t hug him, doesn’t even make any move to touch him. Grantaire wonders sometimes how much he sees, how much he wonders—or even cares—behind those dark blue eyes.

“Fuck them,” Enjolras says, as his voice is colder than Grantaire ever remembers hearing it.

“What?” He gasps.

“Look, fuck it. They didn’t care about, and that’s their own fucking loss, not—not yours. Never yours. Okay?”

Grantaire suddenly feels very warm and it has nothing to do with the bed or the blankets piled on top of them.

“But, see, then there’s the chain restaurant—”

“Burn it to the ground?” Enjolras suggests.

“What about the workers?” It’s not a bad analogy, as far as Grantaire is concerned. Enjolras dislikes big corporations probably as much as he dislikes the concept of monarchy, so at least he’s got that part covered.

“Turn it into a non-profit organization,” he suggests. “Or sell it and donate all the money to charity. You’d be fucking over your whole family.” In an undertone, he adds, “And you wouldn’t be moving to fucking Genovia.”

He says Genovia like a curse word, like it’s personally offended him. It’s kind of how he says _Republican_ , and Grantaire really wants to kiss him.

His thing for Enjolras has really become a problem lately.

“It’s not that easy, Enjolras,” he says, because he has to annoy Enjolras somehow so that the conversation may take a turn back to the familiar trodden path of general aggravation with each other.

“It’s as easy as you want it to be,” Enjolras says, voice sure and lips turned into a straight line that usually means he’s just made up his mind about something and is going to stick with his opinion even if it kills him (or gets Grantaire to throw pillows at his head).

“Look, it’s not—” He’s interrupted by a light tap on the door and before he’s had time to hide under the bed or at least under the blankets, Enjolras’ mom is poking her head into the room and staring down at the two boys on the bed.

“Oh, hello Grantaire,” she says, like it’s normal to find Grantaire in Enjolras’ bed. Her voice is light and unworried and Grantaire tries very, very hard not to duck under the blankets. He’s met Enjolras’ mother before, an extremely good-looking woman (really, there’s no question where Enjolras gets it from) but he’s never exchanged that many words with her. He’s surprised she even knows his name.

Enjolras groans and does hide his face under the blankets. Grantaire viciously pulls the blankets down because he is not dealing with Enjolras’ mom alone while the coward hides under the covers.

“Are you kids alright? Do you need anything? Perhaps some condoms?” she asks.

Grantaire’s face flushes bright red and Enjolras groans as if he’s been shot, looking for all the world as if he’d like nothing better than hide under his bed and never come back out. “Oh god, no,” he whimpers.

“Well, as long as you’re being safe,” his mom says.

“Oh my god, no. We just—Grantaire just needed a place to spend the night, nothing happened,” Enjolras sputters.

“Oh,” his mother says, sounding oddly disappointed. “I just thought—well, nevermind then. Sorry to interrupt you boys!”

 She traipses out of the room, locking the door behind her.

“Oh my god, Enjolras,” Grantaire shrieks in delight. “You have a Cool Mom.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, frowning at Grantaire.

Probably not the best idea on how to introduce Enjolras to the concept of a Cool Mom.

“Er, nevermind. I really should probably get going.”

“You could say for breakfast if you’d like,” Enjolras offers.

“Er—no thanks,” Grantaire says “The more I let it drag the worst it’ll be when I finally do talk to my grandpa. But thanks for offering, Apollo.”

“No problem. Just call if you need anything, alright?”

“Sure,” Grantaire says and rolls out of the bed in search of his clothes and a place to get dressed without having to face Enjolras’ mom again.

—

When he finally makes it back to his house, after reassuring Enjolras’ mother dozens of time that he really does need neither breakfast nor condoms, he waits inside the limo a lot more than is strictly necessary. There are a great many things that he wants to do more than have this conversation—get eaten alive by sharks is probably on the list somewhere—but what he told Enjolras really wasn’t a lie and he knows that the worst he waits the worse it’ll get.

He makes sure to lock the limo once he gets out, because getting robbed isn’t on his list of fun things to do this morning and goes off to look into the house.

Loud voices deep in an argument greet him the moment he unlocks the door and once he heads to the kitchen he finds himself yet again face to face with Jean Valjean, sitting at his breakfast table and trying to glare his grandfather.

“Get out,” Grantaire says, putting as much venom into his voice as possible, before he even knows what he’s doing. 

“You don’t know, you don’t understand—” Valjean says.

“Oh, I know enough—” he says.

“Enough!” his grandfather shouts. “I’m sure my grandson has told you already what he thinks of your offer—”

“It’s not an offer—”

“—and while he appreciates it, we’d really appreciate it even more if you could be gone. Now would be nice.”

“Javert, please be reasonable—” Valjean says.

“And who are you to tell me what reasonable is?” Javert asks, raising an eyebrow. “At least I’m not trying to bully an eighteen years-old boy into taking a crown he clearly doesn’t want—”

“How does he know he doesn’t want something he never had—”

“To be fair here,” Grantaire says quietly, though he gets the idea that this conversation isn’t about him anymore. “There are plenty of things I’ve never had that I’m sure I don’t want. For example, I’ve never had herpes and I still know I don’t want it.”

Unsurprisingly, he is thoroughly ignored by both participants in the conversation.

“You always do this, you just assume the world bends to your very will—” His grandfather is saying.

“Funny of you to say that, when you refuse to accept that anything can bend at all—”

“Can’t you just leave?” Grantaire asks and, as usual, no one bother acknowledging him. The day his grandfather actually decides to listen to anything Grantaire says will probably be declared a national holiday. Shit, does Grantaire have the power to declare National Holidays?

“Oh, you’d know all about me, wouldn't you, Valjean?” Javert is saying.

“I used to, in the past,” Valjean says, very quietly, and _that_ can’t be what he means, because if it is—

For the second time in less than twelve hours, Grantaire bolts out of a room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](http://coolfeyrad.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I also come bearing Sailorjolras:  
> http://flowerjolras.tumblr.com/post/66802536122/not-that-enjolras-will-ever-admit-to-watching


	5. The one with the hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is there anyone fucking participating in this fucking conversation that doesn’t think I’m fucking in love with fucking Enjolras?” Grantaire snaps.
> 
> No one bothers replying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Actual picture of myself right now](https://31.media.tumblr.com/c8097c1a2e27e063cf056c8cd72f8b7c/tumblr_inline_mxvgalL5iA1rr08t5.gif).
> 
> Happy belated barricade day!

For all that Grantaire loves Courfeyrac--and he _does_ love Courfeyrac, even if Courfeyrac’s a completely ridiculous human being who thinks it’s normal to own or sleep in Spice Girls boxers (and oh look at that; now Grantaire is imagining him as Posh Spice, and that’s a lot more than he can reasonably handle at such an early hour, the thought of Courfeyrac in a little Gucci black dress)--he sometimes wishes Courfeyrac wasn’t quite as good at reading people as he is.

Courfeyrac blinks sleep from his eyes as he slides the door open, takes one good look at Grantaire and pulls him into such a tight hug that Grantaire fears he might’ve cracked a few ribs. He wants to fight it and pull back, he does, because he’s not some precious delicate flower that needs hugs at the drop of a hat but… well, he _does_ need a hug and as much of a Disney-loving menace as Courfeyrac is, he could absolutely teach a class on hugging.

Several classes.

He could teach a whole degree on hugging.

His arms are tight around Grantaire, practically crushing him, and he smells like popcorn and bubblegum--and that has to be Courfeyrac’s superpower, smelling like snacks, because it happens every fucking time, even if all he’s had all day has been what he thinks passes for healthy food, like that one time he tried to convince Grantaire chocolate counted as a salad because it came from a plant.

Huh. So maybe it’s not weird at all that Courfeyrac always smells like snacks.

“You are going to die of a heart attack at forty,” Grantaire warns, which is a really fucking ridiculous thing to say at the best of time, especially when someone’s hugging you like it’s a fucking art form, but it’s the only thing he can think of to avoid crying in Courfeyrac’s arms, and that’s a little too much, even for Grantaire.

Whatever else people know about him, let it never be said he once cried on someone wearing Spice Girls boxers.

Courfeyrac chuckles, giving Grantaire’s shoulder one last pat before pulling back and looking at him critically.

“Right, come in,” he says, in a tone of voice that accepts no argument. That’s the perfect indication of what a mess Grantaire looks like, because it usually takes a few explosions for Courfeyrac to get serious about anything. And not the fun kind of explosions that happen whenever Enjolras enters a kitchen.

Grantaire steps inside, cards a hand through his hair as Courfeyrac closes the door behind him.

“Aren’t your parents--”

“Away for the weekend,” Courfeyrac says, waving a hand. “It’s fine. We can talk about whatever this is and eat junk food and watch shitty cartoons. It’s just the two of us, I promise. Well, except--”

“Oh sweet drunk baby Jesus, are those Eponine’s _tits_?” Grantaire asks, voice about ten octaves higher than it usually is. He doesn’t know much about octaves, and he doubts there actually are ten of them, but the hyperbole seems  appropriate, given that he is very much staring directly at Eponine’s boobs, which are firmly attached to an Eponine who is very much standing in front of him looking completely unimpressed.

“They’re great boobs,” she says.

“Yes, and Donald Trump is a great asshole. Doesn’t mean I want to look at him.”

“That’s really--” Eponine narrows her eyes. “Did you seriously just compare my tits to Donald Trump? Because that’s low, dude. And doesn’t even make sense.”

“I need therapy,” Grantaire whines, hiding his face in his hands. “So much therapy, years and years of therapy.”

“It could be worse,” Eponine offers, and Grantaire should stop the conversation, Grantaire knows he should stop the conversation, but he’s never done what he’s supposed to do, has he? Instead, he lets her talk. “I _could_ have told you I was just sitting on Courfeyrac’s face.”

Courfeyrac makes an odd choking sound, like it’s taking all his self-control not to burst into laughter, and then he _does_ burst into laughter.

Grantaire decides to bluff his way through this conversation. It’s like dealing with wild dogs; just don’t show fear and you’ll be fine.

“Were you?” Grantaire asks, curious.

Eponine considers this for a moment. “No,” she says eventually. “I was asleep. But I still could’ve said it happened.”

“Can we, like, not talk about people sleeping together? Because I’d very much appreciate it if we could not talk about people sleeping together,” Grantaire pleads. “Hey, we could talk about me joining a convent. Like Whoopi Goldberg in--whatever that was. God, that was a great movie. Can we do that? We should do that. I’d look great in a habit. Probably. Nuns don’t have to deal with people. And Enjolras. Nuns can get drunk too, right? And they get to go around marching naked people through the streets with a bell, so--”

“I’m pretty sure that’s Game of Thrones, Grantaire,” Eponine points out, shaking her head. “Not a thing that actually happens.”

“Can you put a shirt on, for the love of God?” Grantaire asks, voice strangled. “I vote you put a shirt on. Please put a shirt on.” At least she’s wearing underwear, he supposes, but considering that underwear looks like it came straight from Courfeyrac’s drawers, it does little to relax him.

At least Courfeyrac is wearing a shirt. And proper underwear. He loves Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac is his favorite person. He’s going to give Courfeyrac a salad basket just to show his love and appreciation. Cupcakes arranged like a salad. Something. Anything. Maybe a small country, he can do that now. Political immunity. Never again will Courfeyrac have to worry about the dangers of public sex.

Not that Courfeyrac worries about that now, but Grantaire is sure he’ll appreciate it all the same.

“Say, why are you wearing clothes to open the door?” he asks, frowning slightly, because as grateful as he is, it doesn’t make it _normal_.

Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange a look.

“I’m going to go put a shirt on,” Eponine says.

“I’ll deal with--whatever this is,” Courfeyrac says, waving her off. “Text you-know-who, you know he worries. Grantaire, coffee?”

“Is she texting Enjolras?” Grantaire shudders. “Why is she texting Enjolras? I’m fine, it’s fine, everything's fine, there’s nothing about my life that’s not fine at all. She doesn’t need to text Enjolras. No one needs to text Enjolras. Why would you, when everything is fine?”

“Say fine one more time and I’ll believe you,” Courfeyrac says firmly, and only smirks when Grantaire won’t meet his eye. “Right,” he says, laying his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and steering him towards the kitchen. “Enjolras was worried. And jealous. But mostly worried. We all were once we realized you really got kidnapped by a stripper.” He frowns. “Are you that bad of a tipper? How bad of a tipper do you even have to be to get kidnapped by a stripper? How much did you have to pay to be released? Or was Enjolras right and you just annoyed him into letting you go? Because that sounds like something you’d do. Did you sing Justin Bieber’s entire discography like that one time you were trying to distract yourself from Enjolras’ tight pants?” 

“I,” Grantaire starts, with no idea how to finish that sentence. He realizes belatedly that Courfeyrac has guided him into a kitchen chair and is working his coffee machine. “I,” he tries again. No other words come out.

“Take your time,” Courfeyrac says soothingly, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. Grantaire grasps it like a lifeline.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re wearing clothes,” Grantaire says, a little more grounded now that he has something to do, even if it’s just to hold a steaming cup of coffee.

“Enjolras texted us at 4 in the morning to let us know you were with him,” Courfeyrac says with a sigh, sitting down besides him. “I figured if he was texting at that time and he was with you, something had to have happened.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, though it’s nowhere near as over the top as it usually is. “So if someone was knocking on my door this morning it was either you or him, and I was going to have to kick some ass, so clothes seemed… wiser. Didn’t want either of you to get jealous of my hot, naked body.”

“We didn’t--nothing happened,” Grantaire says firmly, because last thing he needs is to encourage the inane drinking bet he knows his friends have going on. “I mean, we--we shared a bed. Just. Platonically. He slept on me.”

Grantaire has no idea what to make of the expression on Courfeyrac’s face.

“You shared a bed,” he repeats, somewhat hysterical. “You and Enjolras shared a bed and he slept on you and it was completely platonic, is that what you’re saying?”

“I was--upset,” he says, shrugging. “He was trying to cheer me up.”

“Blowjobs usually do wonders for that,” Eponine says cheerfully as she enters the kitchen, thankfully wearing a shirt this time.

“Look, that’s not--can you two keep a secret?” Grantaire asks, suddenly very focused on his knees. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and his skin still smells vaguely like Enjolras. It takes a lot of self-control for him not to try to lick himself.

Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange another look.

“Say, what _did_ happen with the stripper?” Courfeyrac asks, his brow knitting in thought. “Are you thinking about leaving us to join a stripper troupe? Because a) I’d miss you, and b) you don’t have the legs for it. I mean, I do, but…”

“He wasn’t a stripper,” Grantaire says miserably. Maybe they shouldn’t be the first people he tells, maybe he should tell no one at all. Maybe he should drown himself in his coffee cup, that’d make a nice headline. Long lost prince found dead in his coffee cup. Think of the songs the bards would sing. Are there even bards anymore? He’ll have to check.

“Okay,” Eponine says.

“We can keep a secret,” Courfeyrac says.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. He could still change the subject, he knows, but ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away, and he does trust Eponine and Courfeyrac, even if he really wishes he’d never been subjected to their mating habits.

“Right, okay.” Another deep breath. “So, here’s what happened with the stripper…”

\---

By the time he’s done, Courfeyrac has his face buried in his hands and Eponine is chain smoking at the kitchen counter.

“That’s,” she starts, shaking her head. She takes a long drag of her cigarette. “Your life is a fucking reality show waiting to happen.”

“Yes, Kim Kardashian’s got nothing on me,” Grantaire says bitterly. “Just give me a video camera and someone to star in a porno with and my career is made.”

Courfeyrac wiggles his eyebrows again. “Well, if you’re offering…”

“No,” Eponine and Grantaire say at the same time.

“Rude.” Courfeyrac pouts, though it isn’t long before he’s falling serious again. “God. I have no idea what to tell you, I really don’t. Most things, I’m your guy, but there’s not really a lot that you can say when your friend turns out to be a long lost prince, is there? You know who you are? You’re Aragorn. That’s who you are.”

“Aragorn is hot,” Eponine says thoughtfully, in between practically inhaling her cigarette. “You could do a lot worse than being Aragorn. And it doesn’t have to be all bad. I mean, you can marry Prince Harry. I wish _I_ could marry Prince Harry. No offense,” she says, waving a hand at Courfeyrac.

“None taken.” He shrugs. “I too wish I could marry Prince Harry.”

“Pretty sure he’s not into guys, Courf,” Grantaire interjects. “And I’m also pretty sure I don’t want to marry Prince Harry. I don’t want to marry anyone, I’m eighteen. I want to get drunk with an illegal ID like God intended and I want a fucking dragon who eats my algebra homework. Also pizza you can 3D print. Maybe a pony as well? Or a unicorn.”

“The American dream,” Courfeyrac hums. “Along with a Spice Girls reunion.”

“You are _so_ weird.”

“At least I’m not a long lost prince from a faraway land,” Courfeyrac points out. “You should start falling asleep in random places so Enjolras can start trying to wake you with true love’s kiss. True love’s blowjob? True love’s political discussions? Whatever, I’m sure you crazy kids can work it out.”

At that, Grantaire slumps even lower in his chair.

“Oh, what’s wrong now?” Courfeyrac asks worriedly. “What did Enjolras do this time?”

“He didn’t do--he’s going to _hate me_ when he finds out.”

Courfeyrac blinks. “Why would he hate you?”

“Because the monarchy stands for everything he hates?” Grantaire drawls.

“Well, that’s not true,” Eponine offers. “He hates plenty of other stuff. Like--hmm. Pineapple on his pizza. Electronic music--”

Grantaire rolls his eyes “--everyone hates electronic music, ‘Ponine, that’s just called good taste.”

“--whenever I sit on your lap,” she finishes, ignoring him completely. He didn’t expect anything else.

“You have to tell him,” Courfeyrac says. He’s spent more time being serious during this conversation than in his entire life up until this point. Grantaire is very proud of him. “You know you have to tell him, right? If you don’t, it’ll just stretch on and on, and then when he inevitably finds out he’ll just get upset everyone but him knows.”

“I don’t actually enjoy making Enjolras hate me, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says firmly, taking a sip of his coffee just so he has something to do.  “And he doesn’t _need_ to know, because I’m going to fix it before it ever comes to that.”

“That’s a lovely plan,” Eponine says. “But how are you going to achieve that?”

Grantaire considers this.

And then considers it again.

“He could say no,” Courfeyrac tries. “You did say no, right? In very clear terms, using very small words, right?”

“Do you think that matters?” Eponine says impatiently. “One word, one fucking word whispered to the paparazzi and then everything fucking changes. They’ll harass him, they’ll harass his friends, they’ll threaten him, they’ll threaten his friends, and by the end he’ll be so fucking desperate for a security detail he’ll go along with whatever they want.”

“You don’t know if it’ll come to that,” Courfeyrac says, weakly.

“I know that if someone with more power and money than you decides they want you to do something, they almost definitely get you to do it.”

“So, what, I should just go along with it because it’s easier in the long run?” Grantaire asks, an edge of desperation on his voice.

“Fuck no,” Eponine says, finishing her cigarette. Her hands shake slightly as she lights another one. “What we need is a plan.”

“I’m all ears,” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac looks at Eponine. “We need Combeferre, don’t we?”

“We need Combeferre,” she agrees. “Grantaire, are you okay with us telling Combeferre?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Eponine considers this. “Not if you want a way to fix it,” she says. “There’s really nothing much Courfeyrac and I can do right now.”

“Right,” Grantaire relents. “Fucking call Combeferre.”

\---

They call Combeferre.

Grantaire waves a hand, lets Eponine and Courfeyrac explain everything. He notes, gratefully, that they don’t mention the night spent at Enjolras’ house, in Enjolras bed, with Enjolras wrapped around him.

“You need to tell Enjolras,” is the first thing Combeferre says. “You know that, right? You have to know that. It’s _Enjolras_. He’ll find out sooner or later, and it’ll be that much worse if he has to hear about it from someone else.”

“Is there anyone fucking participating in this fucking conversation that doesn’t think I’m fucking in love with fucking Enjolras?” Grantaire snaps.

No one bothers replying.

“I violently dislike you all,” he grumbles.

“Anyway,” Eponine says. “Combeferre--”

“I’m--” Combeferre says through the speakers. “This isn’t a joke, is it? Because I know how much Courfeyrac loves pranks and this is ridiculous enough to be one, but it doesn’t have quite its usual flair. And it’s really not that funny, all things considered.”

Grantaire lets out a truly pitiful whine. “No joke,” he sighs. “Just--my life. Can you just--please, think of something?”

Combeferre is silent for a very long time. “Can I just think of something to _not_ make you the Crown Prince of Genovia?” he asks. The sarcasm is obvious. “Can I just--I don’t know its laws, I don’t know its people, I don’t know its history, I don’t know--”

“We get it,” Eponine cuts him off. “But there has to be _something_. I mean, I know he can say no, but if they decide to tell everyone he’s supposed to be the future King, that’ll--the cat will be out of the bag, then.”

Combeferre takes in a sharp breath. “What you have to do,” he says after a moment’s consideration, “is convince them you’d be an absolutely terrible choice for the job.”

“So I need to be myself, is what you’re saying,” Grantaire says.

“Don’t be obtuse,” Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes. “Just--be terrible. Make chocolate illegal. Ban Game of Thrones. Declare war on Portugal. That sort of thing.”

“Why should I declare war on Portugal?” Grantaire blinks. “They have--whatever the fuck it is Portugal has. Um. Is that the one where vodka’s from?”

“Pretty sure that’s Russia, Grantaire,” Eponine explains with a roll of her eyes. “They have Cristiano Ronaldo’s abs and must be protected at all costs. And that’s not a bad idea, actually,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean, obviously he’s not going to declare war on Portugal, but just--be completely unfit to rule.”

“Like I already am?”

Eponine lets out a frustrated whine and looks for all the world as if she’d like nothing better than to strangle him with her bare hands. Knowing Eponine, she might. “Courfeyrac is right, don’t be obtuse. You might have no idea what you’re doing, but you mean well. And you have a good heart. Just--just play them. Be Joffrey. Be Henry VIII. No one wants a scandal, not on this day and age.”

“I still don’t think--” Grantaire starts.

“Do you have a better idea?” Combeferre asks sharply. “Because if you do then we’re all ears, but from where I’m standing this might actually get them off your back before people find out about it. They’ll want to give you some proper training before they go public, to polish you off properly. Just--convince them it’s a terrible idea before you get to that.”

Grantaire wants to argue, Grantaire really, _really_ wants to argue but he has no idea what else he can do. He’s silent for a long time, mulling it over, before giving Eponine and Courfeyrac a small nod.

“Okay,” he says, for Combeferre’s benefit. “Okay, let’s do that. I’ll just--I’ll make Grantaire Donald Trump again. Why not? There’s not a thing that can go wrong in that plan, not a thing at all.”

“I’ll go over their laws of succession anyway, see if there’s anything else we can do in case this doesn’t work,” Combeferre offers. “Might as well get information as thoroughly as possible. Just--please, _please_ talk to Enjolras?”

“Talk to me about what?” a voice says from behind Grantaire, and Grantaire knows that voice, Grantaire knows the man it belongs to, and as much as he likes being around Enjolras almost all the time, this might actually be one of those weird days where he’d like nothing better than to be as far away from Enjolras as possible.

Maybe moving to Alaska hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Combeferre says, hanging up the phone.

Courfeyrac and Eponine exchange yet another look.

“We should--” Courfeyrac starts.

“Why is your limo still outside?” Enjolras asks.

“How did you even get in here?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I have a key?” Enjolras blinks. “Remember, your parents gave it to me after that one time you locked yourself in your closet and they were at your grandparents?”

Eponine snorts. “How did you even--”

“Playing hide and seek, if you must know,” Courfeyrac says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “Say, did you mention a limo?”

“But why did Enjolras have to come get you?” Grantaire frowns.

“Because if the people he was playing with had to come get him, that meant he'd lose,” Enjolras says, around a truly impressive long-suffering sigh. “Did I mention he was fifteen?”

“So about that limo,” Courfeyrac says, very loudly.

“I stole a limo,” Grantaire explains, for once deciding to take some pity on Courfeyrac.

“I have never been this proud of you,” Courfeyrac coos, before pulling him into another bear-ish hug. “Oh, come here, you brave little soldier.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he murmurs against Grantaire’s ear, “Tell him.”

Courfeyrac detaches himself from Grantaire with an easy grin. “Say, how pissed off are you about that whole thing?”

“A lot?”

“Perfect.” He rubs his hands together. “Don’t you think you should get back at them by letting me and Eponine have sex in the backseat?”

“I’m Eponine and I approve of this plan,” Eponine offers.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but tosses Courfeyrac the keys anyway. “Don’t kill anyone?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Courfeyrac says, laughing much more than Grantaire considers strictly necessary.

He offers Enjolras one last salute, laces his fingers with Eponine’s, and goes laughing out of the room.

“They’re not even wearing pants,” Enjolras says, disapproval obvious in his tone.

“I don’t think they need pants for what they’re planning on doing, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, finally turned to look at Enjolras. “Are those donuts? Are we in a cop show? I feel like I should’ve been told if we were in a cop show. I’d wear a bulletproof vest. And ask for a cute man-eating puppy to guard my back.”

Enjolras ignores this completely, just sets the box of donuts down on the counter and stares unblinkingly at Grantaire.

It’s more than a little unnerving. Don’t get Grantaire wrong, he loves having Enjolras’ undivided attention, but--it’s still a little unnerving.

“Why do you have donuts?” Grantaire asks.

“Eponine texted me you were here,” he says, like that explains everything. “I was worried. I stopped for donuts on the way here, it’s why I took so long. Figured you were in good hands anyway. It’s bothering you a lot, isn’t it?” he asks suddenly, completely turning the conversation in its head, and that’s so perfectly Enjolras Grantaire could cry. “About your family.”

“They’re not my family,” Grantaire says harshly. “They’re just--you know, they’re not even people I’m related to. They’re just people who are related to people I was related to. Donating sperm doesn’t make someone a father, Enjolras.”

“I know that,” Enjolras says, taking a small step closer to Grantaire. “I’m--What can I do?”

“I’m fine, Apollo,” Grantaire says bitterly.

Enjolras takes another step, longer this time. “No, you’re not.”

God, he’s so angry, and at least part of it is directed straight at Enjolras. He’s so tired of everything, of his sperm donor’s family--because he sure as Hell isn’t going to call him a father--remembering he exists only when they need something from him, of his grandfather lying to him his entire life, of being pulled in directions he has no interest of being pulled into. And worst, so much worst, he’s so tired of being afraid of disappointing Enjolras, of having no idea what of this thing between them is, of what Enjolras wants it to be, worrying and worrying about worrying about what Enjolras thinks, what Enjolras feels, what Enjolras needs.

“Fine, then I’m not,” Grantaire snaps. “Just let it fucking go, _please_. It’s not your job to take care of me. It’s not your job to make sure I’m okay. It’s not your job to care about me. It’s not your job to bring me fucking donuts in the morning.”

Enjolras doesn’t move away, doesn’t step back. He’s in arm's reach of Grantaire now. “Yes, it is,” he says, very slowly, enunciating every word very carefully. “Someone _should_ care about you, it’s a full-time job.”

“So sorry I’m such an inconvenience, _O Captain My Captain_ , next time I’ll just--”

But it doesn’t matter what he’d been about to say, it doesn’t matter at all, because Enjolras is stepping closer and closer still, and then he’s wrapping his arms around Grantaire, pulling Grantaire close against his chest, and all the fight goes out of Grantaire. Enjolras keeps one hand tight around Grantaire’s back as the other curls around the nape of his neck, hooking Grantaire’s chin over his shoulder. Grantaire’s treacherous hands flutter up of their own accord, clinging to Enjolras’ back.

He still smells like mangoes.

God, to think he was praising Courfeyrac’s hugs an hour ago. Courfeyrac has no idea how to hug people. Courfeyrac is a mere beginner to the art of hugging. Courfeyrac has no idea what he’s doing. Enjolras, though. Enjolras’ hugs should be _illegal_.

“It _is_ my job,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s ear, his fingers playing almost absent-mindedly with the fine hairs on the back of Grantaire’s head. It takes every shred of self-control Grantaire has not to burst into tears. “ _It is my job_. I _want_ it to be my job. And you don’t get to tell me it’s not. You don’t get to tell me that I don’t have the right to care about you. You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong or how I can help, that’s fine, that’s your prerogative, but don’t tell me how to feel about you. Don’t tell me to stop trying to take care of you, or not to care. I couldn’t stop caring about you even if I wanted to.”

There is a side of Grantaire--the side that occasionally makes good decisions, rare enough as they are--that knows this is where he should tell Enjolras, this is where he should explain everything, and they’d fight, and Enjolras would be disappointed, and that’d be that.

Instead, he sighs, and clings a little harder.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s only been, what, two years? Woops. 
> 
> How’s everyone?
> 
> So long story short my life was sort of all over the place for a while (depression is a very fucked up thing, kids, please talk to a therapist if you don’t feel okay), and then I kind of fell into roleplaying and I needed a time-out from the Les Mis fandom for a while anyway, so I ended up not updating this for a ridiculously long time so. There’s that.
> 
> I’m going to be much less flaky about updating now because things are a lot less chaotic, but I can’t make any promises until around mid-July, because working a job and pursuing higher education at the same time is kind of a pain in the ass. 
> 
> Betaed by Kate and Ani, who are total babes <333333
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr.](http:%5C%5Carcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, hope you all liked it, sorry for taking so long, and thank you for sticking with me <3

**Author's Note:**

> Any prompts or suggestions feel free to find me on [tumblr](http://arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/)!


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